I woke up on my own with a strange feeling of anxiety. It was odd waking up on my own. My mom would always come in to disrupt my slumber, all dressed and energetic with a smile plastered on her face that shouted “I am ready for the day!” My mom would constantly say with an extreme amount of cheerfulness, that the earlier you wake up, the more you can get done in a day and I continually found that to be true. But my bed was comfy: thick with unmovable covers. I didn’t want to vacate my bed, but I knew that I had to if I wanted to go to the fair.

The fair was my favorite activity: it was jumping in the moon bounce or trying to be the first kid through the bounce house relay; the fair was all my favorite foods to eat; it was hundreds of unfamiliar faces in a crowded unrecognizable landscape; but most of all, the fair was spending time with my Dad.

I scrambled out of bed at the thought, stumbling down the stairs with a sort of urgency. Each and every step I placed my weight on creaked a different eerie tune. As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I yelled for my Dad.

“Daddy! I’m awake! Are we going to the carnival?” I paused and waited for a reply but it never came. I ignored the unusual silence, and rushed across the cold black floor into the kitchen.

As I approached the kitchen, I trudged through the exposed fragment of the room, which opened up into the family room, across the furry green carpet. As I advanced to the back of the room, I realized that my black worn leathered couch was packed full of my family. At first sight, I was excited, but then a certain mood fell upon me, one that wasn’t the emotion I was hoping for. But what was it? Anger? Sadness? I couldn’t draw up the right words to answer the questions that crowded my mind. After a moment, I finally spoke.

“Are you guys here for the fair?” My attempt of acting chipper failed as quickly as I had said it.

I was drowned in silence. I was speechless beyond control. I didn’t understand. What did I say that was so wrong? What did I say that didn’t deserve an answer? I was confused, and there was nothing I wanted more than to find an explanation. That’s when I heard a small weep for across the room. I didn’t need to look to see who it came from, I already knew. It was my Grandma Joyce, tall but gentle and stern with confidence. The kind of woman that is strong at heart with endurance; someone you don’t see cry very often.

“Honey, how about you go and talk to your mother, okay?” she spoke with reasoning and persuasion but that didn’t stop the constant flow of confusion.

“Are you guys here for the fair?” I repeated. This time with less enthusiasm.

A tear fell from the surface of her cheek, leaving a trail of washed away makeup. The resemblance of my father stood out on her face like a dark cloud against a bright sky. Their identical prominent eyes were full, with long eyelashes that fluttered with an intense sight of faith.
She spoke again, “Your mother can answer all your questions my sweet darling.”

That’s when I realized something wasn’t right. I readied myself to turn around and run, but before I had the chance a gentle hand was placed upon my shoulder. I spun around to see a woman staring down at me. She was beautiful, but sadness was distinctive in her eyes. Her face was red and swollen from an adventure of fallen tears. Her hair was rustled, like someone who has been living on the streets. But behind the sadness, in the creases of her semi-aged face, her eyes were bright and understanding. I held an awkward gaze with this woman for a second, until I realized that this woman was my mother. I was frightened of her for a moment, but then she spoke, and my thoughts shattered.

“There has been an accident,” she muttered, and I froze.